


Court

by forthegreatergood



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale try to find their place in each other's lives, now that they can.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 289





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters property of Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, and the respective production and licensing companies.

Crowley propped himself up on his elbows and twisted his neck, glaring at the sky over his shoulder. The one cloud over the entire city, and of course it would pick right here to set up shop. He unspooled and flopped back down on his belly, chin digging into his stacked forearms. It had been such a wonderful half-hour--the pavement warm against his belly and the sun beating down on his wings, the heavy lunch he’d shared with Aziraphale leading to equally heavy eyelids. He’d been ready for a blessed nap, and so relaxed that he could almost forget he was trespassing. The cloud was probably a warning from the universe against getting too comfortable.

He sighed irritably, breath moving the leaves on the cowslip in front of him. He’d gotten better lately, at telling when Aziraphale had had enough of him. No more questioning looks, no more fidgeting with his cufflinks, no more fluttering about, fussing at the time. Aziraphale started to grow restive, and Crowley made his excuses, and it went like clockwork. Aziraphale had only had to ask him to leave a half-dozen times since the Ritz, and even then it hadn’t been a direct sort of thing. It was nice, being able to pretend he belonged here.

Of course, it was all that much easier when he could show himself out, bid the angel a good day, and then loop back to sun himself in the courtyard behind the shop. Gone but not gone, unbanished because his continued presence had been overlooked. It was cheating, but then, Crowley _was_ still a demon. A little cheating had to be expected somewhere, didn’t it? And it wasn’t like he was hurting anything with a quick sunbath or three in any given week. Aziraphale had moved into the place and then promptly forgot that the courtyard attached to it was his, and maybe Crowley had the absolutely wretched weather that first few years to thank for it. 

Whatever Aziraphale’s reasons for overlooking a quarter of his property, it let Crowley hover a little longer at the threshold. He was close enough to keep an eye on things, make sure nobody was trying to pull one over on the angel. Close enough too to breathe easy, knowing he was right there if something did go wrong. Close enough to feel that sacred aura bleeding out around the edges no matter how Aziraphale tried not to be quite so blessed obvious. Close enough to close his eyes and pretend he was welcome, that Aziraphale would smile and laugh if he found a demon basking on his pavers.

Crowley pursed his lips and glanced around, eyes narrowing. Stray wrappers and dead leaves had built up in the corners again, and he could probably get away with miracling half of them gone. The mortar should have been mildewed and crumbling, but Aziraphale would never notice that it hadn’t, not unless Crowley got too stupid by half about it. The weeds…

Crowley favored the cowslip with a sympathetic look. The ones that sprouted where there wasn’t any hope at all, he put out of their misery. Not out of any sort of fellow-feeling--nothing like that. But Aziraphale wouldn’t have wanted his inattention to result in suffering, and if Crowley was going to avail himself of Aziraphale’s courtyard without asking Aziraphale’s permission, it was the least he could do, wasn’t it? There were plenty of places were the pavers had eroded a bit, though, or that hadn’t been joined quite right in the first place. If a plant sprouted there, and it was lucky and hardy, it could auger its taproot just deep enough to hit pay dirt. Not enough to do well on, but enough to survive.

The ones that could just cling to life, he couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for. So close to either being cared for by a creature who’d have loved them or not knowing the difference one way or another. Instead they’d missed the mark and gone blundering into this sort of twilight realm. Existence, certainly, but nothing more. There weren’t many pollinators, and even if there were, any fertile seeds would be wasted on unforgiving brick. They hung on because life was just that little bit sweeter than the relief of letting go, or out of unfounded hope, or sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. Crowley never told them what they could have had instead.

He’d been tempted, once or twice, to bring over some containers and make a go of it. If the plants were cooperative and he was careful, enough of their root system would likely make it out intact that he could pot them up and see what they did. But keeping the place relatively clean and in relatively good repair was one thing; Aziraphale wouldn’t expect a moldering wreck if he ever poked his head out the back door. Installing patio furniture and a fucking raised bed was several bridges too far. 

Even Aziraphale would be certain that he hadn’t gone and done _that_ on accident, and Crowley had never been able to hide his fingerprints well enough to fool the angel when he was really investigating something.

“Look at you,” Crowley said quietly, lifting the cowslip’s flower with the tip of one finger. It had even managed a bit of nectar, the hopeless thing. He’d wondered before if it was proximity to Aziraphale that did it, kept them going when they should have shriveled and died long since. “Bet you’ve sunk your roots all the way down into actual soil, haven’t you?”

He miracled himself a bottle of water and splashed a bit down the crack. The plant soaked it up readily, and Crowley gave it a bit more. Who knew? Maybe a bumblebee would find its way into the courtyard and nose around for a moment or two before finding its way back out. Maybe the blossoms wouldn’t be in vain, after all.

He stretched his wings and laid his cheek on his arms, one eye on the bookshop’s back door, just in case. It was certainly that angelic proximity that had kept him coming back around. It had been months and months since he’d had anything to do, really. He should have been bored out of his skull, itching for something to keep himself occupied with. He should have been all but salivating at the thought of being turned loose on the Earth, no more petty or short-sighted orders from Downstairs penning him in.

And yet, somehow he’d been content to do little more than meander around London whenever he wasn’t taking up Aziraphale’s time or lurking on his back porch. There was always something going on, some bright new thing all the borderline prophets were sure was going to revolutionize the industry and save the world and whiten everyone’s teeth whether they wanted it to or not. At least a few of them had to be right, purely from a statistical perspective.

Crowley should probably have been finding the most likely ones and puffing up their egos, or encouraging their greed, or tempting them into sloth, or… something. Just to keep a hand in. There were appearances to think of, after all, and it couldn’t be terribly good for a demon to just completely lay off the wiles and go cold-turkey. Not to mention that it made Aziraphale feel so holy to thwart him, and he got so adorably smug when Crowley let him. There had to be something Crowley could pull off with a minimum of time and effort diverted from mooning around the bookshop.

It didn’t even have to be something he actually did, really, just something he was in the proximity of for long enough to say he had. The tech sector was ticking along quick enough to turn out the next worst idea in the history of the world once a week, now--no more waiting for some charlatan to sell a king on the idea so the whole rest of the court would run with it. Heaven, if Crowley’s attempt to turn his flat into a smart-home was anything to go by, he could get himself a quiet and thorough pardon by claiming credit once it took off enough to be inescapable but not quite enough to ever work right.

Somehow, though, none of it was quite as appealing as loitering on Aziraphale’s sofa until the angel started up with his pointed invitations to dinner or a nightcap or, on one particularly humiliating occasion, a night spent on the sofa.

Crowley’s lip twisted at the thought. It had been late, Crowley would give the angel that. But still, the hamfisted acting Aziraphale had indulged in when he’d looked at the clock and yawned and said, “Surely you can’t be thinking of driving home at this hour?”

As if Crowley couldn’t have taken a detour to Paddington and still been in bed by one. As if either one of them could get physically tired. As if there had been a single time in the last six thousand years when he’d been allowed to sleep on Aziraphale’s couch.

He’d been more careful, after that. He’d stopped pushing his luck quite so hard. Aziraphale had finally agreed that they were on their own side, sure, but Crowley wasn’t fool enough to think that meant a real change in the status quo. 

Aziraphale had always gone about his business and left Crowley to his own devices unless he needed something. Crowley had always been the one chasing after Aziraphale, scrounging for just a few more minutes with him. It had been the lesser of two evils, putting up with a demon. Aziraphale had gotten used to it, over the years, but not so much that Crowley could afford to make him stop and take stock of things now.

They kept one another company a great deal more, certainly, and they didn’t have to look over their shoulders while they were doing it. Aziraphale’s smiles had grown twice as content and roughly five thousand percent less furtive. But in terms of joint ventures? He’d only ever talked Aziraphale into anything with the looming demands of Heaven lending weight to his arguments, and that had vanished like so much chaff in the wind.

Crowley wasn’t going to get him going anywhere or doing anything that he didn’t already want to do, and Crowley hadn’t kept a few steps ahead of the combined suspicion and envy and paranoia of Hell for six thousand years by letting what he wanted blind him to what was. He wasn’t charming enough to seduce an angel out of his nest on his own merits, and Aziraphale was about as likely to continue entertaining Crowley’s blunter overtures as the angel was to take up extreme sports. It was probably a small miracle Crowley was still welcome in the bookshop on a drop-in basis. Aziraphale wouldn’t be coming round to his place for tea or taking little trips with him to Wales or Scotland, never mind summering in Greece and going halfsies on a timeshare in Spain.

Aziraphale absolutely wouldn’t smile at him and take his jacket and tell him that being on their own side suited him. There would be no moment where Crowley paused at the end of the afternoon, and Aziraphale reached up and cupped his jaw before leaning in to kiss him. Aziraphale wasn’t going to hold him, or whisper loving blandishments in his ear, or tell him that it was wonderful that they were free to be together at last.

Crowley grunted and pushed himself up onto his knees, spreading his wings for balance. Couldn’t even blame the Fall for that one--angels might have gone in for a good cuddle the same way they went in for a rousing square dance, but none of the other demons had taken it into their heads to go falling in love with anyone either. He’d booked this gig as a one-being band. 

It at least had the questionable benefit of security through obscurity; Aziraphale wouldn’t suspect any more than Beelzebub ever had. Crowley would never have to sit through a compassionate but firm explanation of why the very thought of it was revolting or field mortifying questions about whether or not he could, if it wasn’t too much trouble, simply stop.

Like he hadn’t tried, once he’d realized. Like he hadn’t done his damnedest, once he’d finished running the absolute best-case scenarios. 

Aziraphale had seemed so needy sometimes, so lonely. It hadn’t been so far-fetched to think that Aziraphale might, in the extremity of it, love him back if Crowley staged a slick enough courtship. It had been so tempting sometimes, to try. They could love each other, take pleasure in each other. They could live in fear of losing one another. They could get each other killed. He could give Aziraphale a reason to fall. Aziraphale could give him a reason to despair. 

It would have been better for everyone concerned if he’d just been able to stop, and so naturally it had thwarted his every effort, growing stronger with every attempt to smother it or uproot it or cut it back. Eventually he’d given up on ridding himself of it, but he’d never let himself get so comfortable with loving an angel that he could trick himself into thinking it might be welcome.

Crowley got to his feet, then glanced back up at the lone cloud. It wouldn’t rain for days, by the looks of it. He rubbed his chin, running the odds on the plants surviving the heat without it. Not great, really. Aziraphale would do something, if he knew.

Crowley splashed a bit of water on the other flowers, then stooped to pluck a seedling that had found a crack too small for it to live. It might make it a week or two, but then it would choke on its own roots and wither away over the course of days, the sum total of half its life spent in misery. He shook his head and crushed it quickly, snuffing it out before it could feel much of anything. It was a pity Aziraphale had never taken an interest in gardening. Then again, if he had, Crowley wouldn’t have an empty courtyard to creep into.

He cracked his back and flexed his wings. At least he hadn’t done anything wrong by getting Aziraphale kicked out of Heaven. 

He’d always been so afraid of it. There was nothing Crowley could do to cost Aziraphale his grace or make him fall; only Aziraphale’s own actions could damn him. But exile? Shunning? The eternal denial of those hallowed halls Aziraphale never seemed to stop missing? That would have been cake. A few slip-ups here, one too many mistakes there. Crowley could have literally done it in his sleep, and then what? Aziraphale miserable and hating him but still dependent on him for safety, the both of them living in terror of the moment when Hell discovered an Earth-bound principality there’d be no reprisal for tormenting in any way they could think of.

If Crowley had for a moment thought that Heaven had turned into _that_ in the eons since the War, he’d have come up with a solid contingency plan and bless the consequences. He’d never for a moment have pictured the lifeless, blasted halls he’d been dragged through in Aziraphale’s corporation. It was like they’d been so shaken by the War that they’d been afraid to let any shadow linger, like they’d been so horrified by the bloodstains that they’d drowned themselves in bleach. 

It stood to reason, in retrospect. Hell had gone just as hard in the other direction, refusing any lingering virtue or beauty out of spite. Heaven had gone overboard trying to prove they weren’t demons, that they deserved Her love and their place in Her halls, and Hell had denied itself in an obsessive performance of opposition to a place that had turned into the spiritual equivalent of staring into an interrogator’s lamp while nursing a concussion. If he’d known that was what Aziraphale was dealing with…

Crowley gritted his teeth. If he’d known that was what Aziraphale was picking over him, more like. He hadn’t exactly borne up under loving an angel who couldn’t love him back with a surfeit of grace, once he’d realized he wouldn’t be able to shake it. Though, really, who could have expected him to?

If he was going to go around falling in love with things, it had seemed grossly unfair that it couldn’t at least have been with mortals. Beautiful, corruptible mortals, destined to wink out after barely a century or two and land in Hell with him. He could have built himself a cozy little cocoon and stowed up everything he’d loved, if he’d done that. 

Or even another demon, really. He’d had fucking eternity--even the thickest of his colleagues could probably have wrapped their head around the concept after literally infinite explanations. He could have started a whole new paradigm, called it a morale booster, cobbled together some paperwork for preferential assignments based on personal affinity. He couldn’t have called it ‘love’ if he’d gone with another demon, but the world was full of new words for new ideas and focus-groups of grudging coworkers to test them out on.

But no, it had been with Aziraphale. Untouchable, perfect, lovely Aziraphale. Crowley shook his head and grimaced. He should probably be grateful for whatever improbable crack the angel’s affection for him had found to grow in, even if it could never thrive there. Getting looked at with that sort of tolerant fondness was certainly better than the alternative, as a half-dozen archangels had only been too happy to demonstrate. 

Crowley doused the weeds with the rest of the water. Aziraphale would never be his, not like he wanted, but at least Aziraphale was safe now in his cozy little bookshop, free to make things just as he needed them to be. He would never have to go back to that Godforsaken clusterfuck that passed for Heaven. It might be just the two of them here, but it was miles better than that must have been, wasn’t it? Had to be--practically anything was better than that. 

Crowley looked around the courtyard. Bare and a bit grotty but still loads better than Hell, and that was even before he considered the company. And Aziraphale liked him, liked having him around. It was just that it was a small-doses kind of thing. Given time, he’d probably become habituated, too, stop noticing when Crowley’d been hanging around for an hour or so more than he’d have gotten away with right after the Apocalypse had fallen apart like a bad souffle.

He just had to be patient, that was all. Not his strong suit, unfortunately, but this was too important to let his normal pedal to the metal approach fuck everything up. Crowley shook his head, suddenly resenting the closeness and press of the city. He beat his wings and took to the sky, leaving the little courtyard behind for the day.

* * *

Aziraphale blotted the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and leaned on his broom. He almost regretted not simply taking care of everything with a quick miracle, but all the same, there was value in taking the time to do something by hand. He’d been neglecting the courtyard behind the bookshop since the Blitz; if he wanted Crowley to understand it as something deserving of consideration, he needed it not to look like a backhanded afterthought.

He fanned himself and looked around, trying to imagine it not as a stale and barren patch that had earned the leaves and litter he’d spent half the afternoon sweeping up, but as something full of… 

Well, Crowley would have some ideas, surely. It had potential, and that was what mattered.

Crowley would want something sterile and bright and modern, with a plant or two here and there just to highlight everything else he’d done. A place that imagined the city as what it could be, with all the grime and decay scrubbed away. Somewhere Crowley could go when the clutter of the bookshop got to be a bit much and he needed a breather. Somewhere that wasn’t his flawless, spartan flat, where the demon inevitably found something more interesting or less fraught to occupy his time, and it was days before Aziraphale would see him again.

Once the courtyard was clean, Aziraphale could get the ball rolling with a bench or a little cafe table and some chairs. He could suggest they adjourn to the courtyard, pretend to be very pleased with himself for broadening the scope of his leisure, and watch the gears ticking away in Crowley’s head, all the ideas and opinions Crowley wouldn’t hesitate to offer on a blank canvas tumbling away in that infernal brain. 

And then he could suggest that Crowley make it however he thought best, and assure Crowley that whatever he wanted would be perfectly splendid, and Crowley would take it as the invitation it was.

Aziraphale could say, “No, please--suit yourself. Your interior decorating is always so clever.” and Crowley would hear, “Please, I want you to be comfortable here.”

He’d cleaned out the little room above the shop, but that was… Aziraphale flushed pink, even alone, here, in the privacy of a disused courtyard where no one could see him but Her. 

No, showing Crowley the bedsit above the shop was very much getting ahead of himself. He’d had to steel himself before so much as putting an armchair right next to the queen-sized bed, practically blushed himself dizzy imagining Crowley napping away under the covers, him reading a book in that chair, their hands entwined. It might have been one thing if it was still buried in the dross of the last two hundred years, if the importance of it could be camouflaged somehow, but that was all gone. 

It was nothing more and nothing less than a modestly decorated bedroom meant for two creatures--one who slept, and one who didn’t but still wanted to be close. If he showed it to Crowley now, Crowley would look from that bed and that chair to Aziraphale’s crimson cheeks, and Crowley would gently suggest that perhaps it was a bit too fast for Aziraphale to be entirely comfortable with, and then She only knew how long it would be before Crowley could face him again.

But this, this would be perfect. Crowley could do with it as he liked, and Aziraphale could take as long as he needed to bring a bit of order back to the shop. By the time Crowley stopped getting that hunted look from too much clutter and too much disarray and too little open space, they’d have met in the middle, and Aziraphale would be able to say “I have something to show you.” as cool as he pleased. He’d be able to sweep Crowley off his feet properly, have the demon saying _yes_ with that delighted smile tempering those sharp features, have him properly moved in before it occurred to Crowley to stop and look for all the reasons why he shouldn’t.

Aziraphale chewed his lip. If he did it slowly enough, Crowley wouldn’t narrow those lovely eyes and look around and ask who it was that Aziraphale was tidying up for.

He hadn’t meant to be so obvious about it, right afterwards, when them being at loose ends had been so new. It had only been that he’d finally really looked around the shop and seen how it must feel to someone who preferred to keep their home the way Crowley kept his. Not a sty, no--the shop was clean, and Aziraphale knew where everything was. But it was still a mess. It couldn’t really be comfortable for someone who wanted everything neat as a pin and unencumbered. It was easy to see why Crowley kept slinking off, even when Aziraphale was at liberty to let him stay. 

Aziraphale had gone on a bit of a binge, and Crowley had homed in on it as soon as he’d walked through the door.

“Don’t tell me you finally met your match and found a customer who talked you out of actual inventory, angel.”

The explanation that the clutter certainly wasn’t to everyone’s tastes had gone over like the proverbial lead balloon.

“This is your shop, angel.” Crowley’s eyes had been bright enough to burn, and his shoulders had had that motionless tightness to them they got when he was trying to keep himself in check. “You should do as you like in here, and bugger anyone who says different.”

Except that Aziraphale hadn’t minded at all, had he? Everything he’d let go of because of an archangel’s pointed comment about him getting too attached had felt like a punishment, and everything he’d piled up just to see Gabriel’s face go tight and his visits to the shop dwindle had felt like a bitter victory. Everything he’d reordered and reorganized and dusted off and put away and moved onto the shelves he’d actually let someone buy from for Crowley’s sake had left him feeling almost giddy. 

It had been strange, feeling that urge to cling to everything like a limpet all but evaporate practically overnight. Pamphlets and circulars and manuscripts he’d have fought tooth and nail for barely a year ago had suddenly seemed unimportant. He’d checked a few and found that copies were housed in several archives, in addition to having been scanned and uploaded to a public repository online, and then he’d felt absolutely nothing about letting them go to an auction house. 

He’d used the money to hire a tailor to make him a new waistcoat and a cobbler to make him some smart new shoes, and he’d been pleased as punch with the results. There had been a bit left over, and he’d seen a pair of cunning wrought iron lamps that were made to look like winding vines with leaves on them. They’d reminded him of Crowley, and he hadn’t thought twice about buying them.

Aziraphale blushed again to think of the lamps now, adorning the end tables on either side of the bed and the armchair, respectively. It had been such a ridiculous purchase, and still, he didn’t regret either the purchase or what he’d done for the money. It had been wonderful--almost exciting--to take such a bold move.

Crowley wouldn’t likely be such an easy sell, though. He’d always been so protective; Aziraphale had always had to work so hard not to acknowledge it. It had been like standing at the Gates and looking down, down into that fathomless drop his wings wouldn’t save him from--the hideous risks Crowley would take for him, if he ever slipped up and let the demon know what he needed. 

Crowley had been skimming off what he owed Hell on Aziraphale’s account for centuries, flirting with utter destruction every time they met. Aziraphale was quite certain he knew the precise outcome of it if he ever _said_ “Stay with me, move in with me, never leave me again.” 

Crowley would stay, no matter how uncomfortable it made him, and Crowley would even count himself happy, no matter how much he had to contort himself to fit the definition of it. It was unbearable, what Crowley would give up to please him. It was unbearable, what so long in Hell had taught Crowley he deserved.

Aziraphale shook his head. He didn’t want Crowley putting up with things for him. He wanted Crowley to be comfortable enough to stay for himself, first. Measured against Hell, anything could be a paradise, but Crowley wouldn’t be measuring things against Hell for much longer if Aziraphale had his way. 

The trouble was, of course, that Aziraphale had made sure over those same centuries Crowley had spent flouting Hell’s dictates on his account that the demon would never ask him for such petty consideration as affection or indulgence or a warm welcome. It had been necessary, drawing all those lines in the sand that kept Crowley at a safe distance and kept Aziraphale from reaching for things he couldn’t keep, but it had been necessary in the way of a suppression fire--the lesser of two evils, and destructive in its own right. 

Keeping Crowley alive and whole and free had been such a difficult balancing act that Aziraphale hadn’t had the luxury of worrying about what lessons he was imparting with his methods. They were free, now. Free, whole, and alive--and still Crowley remembered with that same awful clarity that he brought to everything else what it was to ask for even the smallest things and be denied. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help a pang of pointless regret at that. There hadn’t been anything else for it; he was sure of that much. He’d have found it, if there was. He’d certainly looked hard enough over the years, tortured himself with the false hope of finding a way for them to have everything they wanted at once, without paying an unthinkable price for it. He’d never really believed the day would come, but he’d had to trust that if it did, Crowley would turn that same blind eye to Aziraphale’s denial of him that he’d turned to Aziraphale’s acts as Heaven’s agent.

If Crowley could speak to him again after he’d confused humanity’s language after the tower fell at Babel, then surely Crowley could pretend Aziraphale had never said they weren’t friends.

And really, Aziraphale had only ever pushed him away because he couldn’t bear a world from which Crowley had been expunged. There was a sweetness to life when Crowley was absent that he could still savor, but Aziraphale shuddered to think of a life where Crowley’s presence was an impossibility. How many things had he done, and been, and tried, and learned not just for his own sake but because he’d wanted Crowley to be impressed with him and admire him? How many things had he suffered with a better spirit for imagining how Crowley would comfort him afterwards? How many things had he loved for Crowley’s sake and preserved because Crowley would be delighted with them?

He’d needed Crowley for so long, and he’d spent just as long making sure Crowley never once truly felt it. Small wonder the demon held back now, didn’t dare make with the strategic forgetting that had gotten them through the Flood and Golgotha and the Crusades and the Counter-Reformation. Crowley had barely dared ask for an apology, after all the awful things Aziraphale had said once Armageddon had reached the point of no return. He’d simply stood at the door, after the Ritz, and not come in until Aziraphale had told him unmistakably and clearly that he wanted the demon there. That he was welcome.

Now here they were, months later and Aziraphale still with no idea how to say what he meant in a way that wouldn’t send Crowley bolting back to a safe distance. Crowley would do anything he asked, and it was terrifying, having so much power. Crowley would do anything he asked, and there were times when Aziraphale could see how terrifying it was for the demon, someone having so much power over him. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale had been a particularly benevolent tyrant, over the years. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t know precisely who was to blame for Crowley’s caution, now. 

No--the only safe approach was from the periphery, those tokens and small, meaningful gestures that would ask without asking and tell without telling. The things that would let Crowley interpret them as he would, that would give Crowley the security of picking through them as he chose. Such a delicate thing, luring a demon.

Aziraphale sighed and picked up the dustpan. There would be no cafe table and chairs until the place was swept and scrubbed and presentable, which meant there would be absolutely no hope of a demon taking possession until he’d finished his chores. He brushed the leaves into the pan, then stopped, staring.

He flicked a few leaves aside to reveal, tangled in the debris, a black feather the length of his thumb.

Aziraphale frowned at it, then picked it up. He glanced at the edges of the roof, lips pursing. It was a small feather off a large bird, swan-sized at least. There weren’t even ravens frequenting his roof at this time of year, and he hadn’t seen a swan outside of the park in decades. Perhaps a goose? It was pretty even after its rough treatment, with a gloss to its barbs that Aziraphale couldn’t remember seeing in even the most well-tended geese. He ventured into the small patch of sun left and held the feather up, smiling to himself at the iridescent sheen. A starling, then. He’d been too quick in identifying it--it would be the largest feather off the wing of a smaller bird.

And they did get everywhere, really. Crowley would have his work cut out for him, once he started installing plants and furniture. Nothing but a swift was liable to find the courtyard inviting at the moment, but Aziraphale could imagine it laid out like one of the little plazas that had been so popular in Paris before the revolution, with Crowley grumbling about wrens and sparrows mucking up his topiary and trying to nest in his furniture.

“Such a pretty bird you must have come from,” Aziraphale murmured to himself, reluctantly consigning the feather to the dustbin. “Back to work, though, or I’ll never be finished.”

The courtyard hadn’t really been so bad, for all the time he’d let it go. He supposed it hadn’t escaped the watchful eye of the various women he’d taken on as housekeepers over the years, when circumstances had left them in need of unquestioning employers and flexible hours. They wouldn’t have ventured to make anything of it, but they wouldn’t have let it go to complete wrack and ruin, either. Aziraphale swept up the last of the leaves and emptied them into the bin, then looked around. 

The courtyard wasn’t without its charms, even empty and unused. The lines were clean and open, almost to the point of exposure, but it would be perfect for someone looking to escape a shop that had grown too cramped. It got plenty of sun most of the day, and there was a decent enough cross breeze to keep it from being too stuffy even during the worst of the summer. It was still a tad hot for his tastes, but then Crowley ran cool and always seized on whatever patches of sunlight were to be had, whatever the time of year.

Aziraphale thought of the fetid, crushing dimness of Hell and closed his eyes. It had, perhaps, nothing at all to do with Crowley being cold-blooded. He took a deep breath and made himself relax. Even if Crowley was never his to keep, Crowley was at least free of that awful place now. Forever and ever, amen--he’d been able to do that much for the demon, been able to make up for the hurts he’d caused by breaking Hell’s claim.

But Aziraphale didn’t think it was quite so dire as all that. Crowley wouldn’t visit so often if he wasn’t willing to overlook at least some of Aziraphale’s highhanded treatment. 

Aziraphale didn’t even have to invite him, most times. No--the courtyard would be everything Crowley needed to stay with him for more than an afternoon, to keep the demon occupied while Aziraphale got himself sorted. Even the weeds that had sprung up through the cracks here and there seemed lush and vital, thriving where they should have been tatty and ragged. It would be lovely to watch Crowley make the space his own.

Aziraphale knelt next to the closest of the weeds and ran a fingertip over the petals of one buttery yellow flower. He felt almost sorry to have to pull them all up, given how hard they were clearly trying to stay alive. It wasn’t even precisely a weed, not really--only out of place. 

Mostly cowslip, he thought, with maybe some stunted yarrow thrown in for good measure. No spring meadow complete without a stand or two of either, but a paved courtyard in Soho was a different story.

Crowley would know for certain what they were; he’d always been so fascinated with plants and what people did with them.

Aziraphale beamed at the little flower, and its color seemed to deepen as he watched. That would be the perfect excuse, wouldn’t it? Once Aziraphale had gotten the pavers scrubbed and the whitewash freshened, he could ask Crowley back here to tell him what the plants were, then segue naturally into what to do with the space.

“I can’t store any books out here, obviously,” he’d say, pretending not to see the way Crowley’s measuring gaze took in the way the light fell and breeze eddied and the din from the street seemed so far away, “but I’ve been thinking I really should do _something_ with it. What do you suggest?”

“You’re the most darling excuse I think I’ve ever had,” Aziraphale told the flower. 

It perked up at that--he wasn’t imagining it--and Aziraphale smiled. He could feel it in his bones, how pleased Crowley would be with the place.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley ran his fingers through his hair and stared around the courtyard. The spotless, scrubbed-clean courtyard. Aziraphale had just swanned out the back door and cleaned everything, and it had only been sheer blind luck that Crowley hadn’t been flopped out on the pavement with his wings spread like he owned the place--like he belonged there--when Aziraphale had done it.

Satan’s sake, he’d almost torn it, hadn’t he? He’d almost found that one last way to fuck himself over. What the heaven would Aziraphale even say, if he came puttering out the door with his broom and dustpan and bin bags and--

Crowley closed his eyes and tried not to laugh. Would Aziraphale have put on those appalling safety-yellow rubber cleaning gloves? It seemed like the sort of thing the angel might do. Ridiculous, beloved Aziraphale. Crowley could imagine him dropping all of it in a heap at the shock of seeing Crowley there, though. He could imagine it all too well.

But Aziraphale wouldn’t have just decided to give everything a good cleaning, would he? Aziraphale wasn’t much given to keeping things neat for no reason. He’d had a bit of a lapse when they’d first gotten their walking papers, probably because he’d been missing Heaven, and he’d actually gone through and gotten rid of things. That had, as they said, been that, though. There hadn’t been a repeat.

Crowley couldn’t help but look at the courtyard, stripped of its litter and its dirt and its anonymity, and see a pleasant spot for a luncheon or two. There was a method to the madness--Aziraphale meant to use it. 

Aziraphale meant to enjoy it, to occupy it, and why shouldn’t he? It was his. But Crowley couldn’t quite crush down the wailing, petulant surge of selfishness at the loss of it, at the irrational feeling of being driven out of that one marginal spot he’d managed to find in Aziraphale’s space. 

What would the rest of eternity even look like, scratching for a few more minutes here and there with the angel going restless and glancing at the clock every time he thought Crowley wasn’t looking? He’d fuck it up--he knew he would. He’d come up with ways to sneak a little more time, and then he’d ask, and then finally he’d plead, and the whole time Aziraphale would be rethinking every grudging inch he’d ever given, every mile he’d let a demon take in his well-ordered existence.

Crowley had somehow formed an expectation that things could continue on as they had been, and somehow it was coming as a shock that they couldn’t.

Crowley took a deep breath. It would be fine. He was overreacting. There was a coffee shop across the street, a bakery on the corner. Heaven, he could buy out the boutique next door and make the angel blush by telling him it seemed a properly demonic retirement, dealing in unsatisfying pornography. He didn’t _need_ the courtyard to keep the angel close.

Except... 

Crowley looked around, staring and half-wild at the thought that this wasn’t simple whim on Aziraphale’s part. He’d been careful, he’d been so, so careful--

Crowley swallowed thickly. No. He’d been careful, before the Antichrist’s eleventh birthday. He’d assumed the baleful eye of Heaven was ever watchful, and the jealous eye of Hell never closed. After he’d had Aziraphale all to himself, comparatively, he’d started letting things slip. He’d been careful, sure, but not nearly careful enough.

He raked his fingernails over his scalp and pressed the heels of his palms against his skull. Miracling away all but the faintest drift of dead leaves. Banishing the mildew and the mushrooms. Watering the fucking weeds. What had he been thinking? Of course Aziraphale would notice. The things Aziraphale noticed and pretended for manners’ sake not to have done could fill every library left in Alexandria.

And instead of putting his foot down and telling Crowley off, Aziraphale had come out and done this. It was gentle, comparatively. Bloodless, comparatively. Just a casual redrawing of boundaries, as if Crowley had simply forgotten, and they could both get back to the polite business of being chums now that that was all sorted out.

“Blessed fucking idiot,” Crowley muttered to himself. “You knew better.”

And he had, too, was the thing. He’d known he couldn’t really have something like this, not forever. To all things there was an end, but most especially to things that let him pretend She didn’t have it out for him. Crowley took a deep breath. The thing was… the thing was to not be caught here at the scene of the crime, gawping like a yokel catching sight of a flashy bit of street theater.

If Aziraphale had gone to the effort of cleaning the place up as an understated keep-out sign aimed at him personally, it wouldn’t do to get caught standing around ignoring it. Heaven--if Aziraphale had done it coincidentally, the best way Crowley could think of to get banished for real was to get caught out lurking around and sticking his nose in things that were none of his business. 

And really, it was most likely a coincidence. Aziraphale wasn’t so ruthless, not on his own. Not without Heaven cranking up the pressure and Aziraphale trying to conform to it and lashing out at whoever reminded him that it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

A coincidence, but still, the outcome would be the same. Crowley exhaled slowly. He’d think of something. He always did. He’d think of something, or find something to bribe the angel with, or any number of things. He was clever. He was clever, and Aziraphale did like him, at least a bit, and they only had each other.

Crowley shook himself and gave the place one last, despairing once-over. It had been a retreat, of sorts. He’d miss it. But he’d find something new, and he’d be happy with that just as well--he just had to _think_.

* * *

Aziraphale stirred from a comfortable drowse, the book he’d been reading fluttering in his lap as he shifted position. He marked his place absently, looking around the shop. He’d heard…

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes and tried to focus around the delicious ache that had settled into his corporation. Wings? The rustle of feathers? He listened more intently now, then shook himself. Nothing. He’d been daydreaming, most likely. The book had been chronicling the history of Hamburg’s swans, and he’d thought of the black feather he’d found, and then he’d found himself wishing it hadn’t taken the end of the world for Crowley to show his wings again. When had he started to drift?

He’d remembered that day in Eden, on the wall with Crowley sheltering under his wing, closer than was wise on both their parts. Crowley had tucked his wings tight against his back, but even so those warm feathers had brushed Aziraphale’s hand. Strange, how he could remember how silky they’d been, even after such a long time. Even after he’d hardly thought of it at the time. He’d been focused more on the demon’s hand, on how close it was and how Crowley might not even object if he reached out and held it, on how the world might be ending but at least he wasn’t alone.

Aziraphale blinked and pushed himself up. Strange, that he’d forgotten how cataclysmic it had seemed, the humans being banished from the garden. It had felt so much like She’d pulled the plug on the whole experiment. Instead they’d thrived, and kept on thriving, until they’d done so many wonderful things and given him so much to love and finally shown him exactly what a cataclysm really was.

And through it all, Crowley had been there, waiting patiently for him to come around. 

Aziraphale stretched and got to his feet. He’d wondered what it would have been like, to press his cheek to Crowley’s wing. That’s when he’d started to drift. He’d imagined that sleek warmth sliding over his skin, and he’d tried to remember the precise scent of those lovely feathers, and he’d lost himself in the vision of that hopeful future when Crowley would let him touch them as much as he wanted.

He could ask Crowley to groom his wings for him, point out all the times Crowley had scolded him for letting them get so rumpled, and then insist on returning the favor. Crowley would go so languid under it, wouldn’t he? That nervous tension slowly draining out of him as Aziraphale worked, those corded muscles gradually relaxing as Crowley realized that he was safe, that Aziraphale would never let anything happen to him. His breathing would deepen. The yellow of his eyes spread to cover the whites. He’d sigh and arch into it if Aziraphale ran his fingers through that pretty copper hair.

The ache in Aziraphale’s chest sharpened until it was a tightness he didn’t want to bear. Surely Crowley wouldn’t mind coming over, just for a bit. They could have tea, chat about nothing, make nebulous plans for next week. Aziraphale wouldn’t ask for more, wouldn’t need him to stay longer. Just a bit, just for a few hours. Just enough to soothe that ache.

He got to his feet and headed for the phone. If he’d finished with the courtyard like he’d planned, it wouldn’t have to be just a few hours. He’d swept it again the day before, getting every last bit of dirt up and, God help him, watering the flowers. He hadn’t been able to help himself--the last few days had been sunny, and dry, and they’d looked so parched. He could have simply miracled the pavers scrubbed and the walls whitened right then, but instead he’d gone back inside for a wildflower identification guide and let it slide.

Well, it would only be the work of a moment, wouldn’t it? He could do it while Crowley was on his way over.

Aziraphale smiled to himself and picked up the phone. Crowley answered on the second ring, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder where on Earth he was. It sounded like he was walking through the middle of a traffic jam.

“Angel,” Crowley said, all studied nonchalance. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing important.” Aziraphale’s smile widened. It would be just like the demon to come rushing over and then pretend irritation because he’d thought Aziraphale needed him. “I was just wondering if you might like to come over for a spot of tea? I mean, if you’re not in the middle of something.”

“Ah.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Suppose I could, yeah. Nothing much on until later.”

“Wonderful! When shall I expect you?” Aziraphale smoothed down his shirt and straightened his bowtie. He should probably check his hair, too, shouldn’t he? What he’d been thinking, half dozing off in his chair like that, he couldn’t say. He glanced at the door and almost dropped the handset.

“Erm. Nowish?” Crowley waved from the window. “Sorry, I was already in the neighborhood.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and glared at the demon in the window, then hung up. Already in the neighborhood and not planning to stop by. It figured.

He unlocked the door and let Crowley in, relenting the moment Crowley gave him a lopsided smile that didn’t quite cover the hesitation in his frame. “I didn’t want to go pounding on the door when I saw the shop was closed.”

“You could have just called,” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s not an imposition. Darjeeling?”

“Sure.” Crowley sidled past him, the quick, assessing glance about the shop noticeable at such close range. “‘ve you been scrubbing the furniture, angel?”

“It’s only a bit of a spit-polish,” Aziraphale told him, shrugging. The wood and the upholstery usually got a good lemon-scented deep miracling every few years or so, but Adam’s birth had sent everything about his normal routine right off the rails.

Crowley ran his fingers over an out of the way shelf, then rubbed the tips together. “Tidying for anything in particular, this time?”

“I am not tidying,” Aziraphale lied, no trace of a waver in his voice. Crowley had reacted so poorly last time.

“Not even a little?” Crowley asked, almost to himself.

“We spent eleven years trying to save the world, Crowley. Unsurprisingly, I let a few things slide while we were at it.” Aziraphale filled the kettle and put it on to boil. “You can’t object to me catching up a bit, surely.”

“So long as it’s what you want to be doing,” Crowley murmured, brows beetling when he glanced at Aziraphale. He seemed to be searching for something, looking for an answer to a question he hadn’t voiced. “So long as that’s all there is to it.”

“Just you and me, my dear. Who else is there to worry about?” Aziraphale assured him, giving the cupboards a quick rifle. If he really wanted to do himself a favor, he should probably alphabetize the tea tins. He finally laid hands on the darjeeling and pulled out a pair of cups. “Help yourself to a biscuit, won’t you?”

He waved a hand in the general direction of the covered tray he’d been using to keep his baking experiments from going stale.

“Satan’s sake,” Crowley said flatly, lifting his glasses and staring at it in something like trepidation. “Got yourself a new passion, have you?”

“I…” Aziraphale huffed and smiled. He supposed he had gotten rather out of hand with it. But then, it had been a soothing distraction from his petty scheming about the shop and the courtyard and the room upstairs. Baking required focus and attention and, at the end of the day, if he scotched it, he could simply throw it away and start over. “I suppose it’s more that I’ve found a renewed appreciation for the small things. And I’ve always felt that it gives one a deeper understanding of human accomplishment to replicate it in a human way.”

“Hmph.” Crowley helped himself to a linzer biscuit. “Sounds like an awful lot of work when you could just throw some scratch a baker’s way. What’ll you have?”

“I think a macaron,” Aziraphale said. He smiled knowingly when Crowley took the opportunity to filch a few more linzers. As if Aziraphale would scold the contrary thing for taking more than the one. “How are the plants getting on?”

Crowley blinked at him, linzer halfway to his mouth and eyes wide in alarm. “What plants were those?”

Aziraphale stared at him, jaw slack at the question. What on Earth could Crowley mean, _what plants_?

“That half an acre you’ve got tucked away in your living room?” he asked finally, tilting his head. “What other plants are there?”

Crowley shoved half the biscuit in his mouth and shrugged, his immediate answer unintelligible around the shortbread and jam. 

“Plants all over the city, angel, how’m I to know which plants you meant,” he said finally, after he swallowed.

“I very clearly meant your plants, in your apartment,” Aziraphale sighed. “Why would you care about plants elsewhere?”

“Excellent question.” Crowley forced a smile, and Aziraphale set the teapot down on the table and shook his head.

He turned back for the cups and almost missed Crowley running his fingers through his hair, frazzled look on his face.

“Was this a bad time, my dear?” Aziraphale asked carefully, pouring their tea.

Crowley stiffened. “N--why do you ask?”

“You just seemed a bit scattered, that’s all.” He nudged the cup over to join the plate with Crowley’s second linzer on it, then sat down. “Run ragged. I really didn’t mean to interrupt if you were in the middle of something.”

“What could you possibly have interrupted that I’d have been in the middle of?” Crowley asked, spreading his hands.

“I haven’t the faintest notion, I’m sure.” Aziraphale studied him for a moment, taking in the drawn features and hunched shoulders and twitching fingertips, all of it smothered under a stubborn determination not to let any of it show. “Crowley… are you all right?”

“Fine. Tip-top. Tickety-boo.” Crowley seized on his tea and began drinking it with the same intensity with which he’d crammed the linzer in his mouth.

“Is there something?” Aziraphale prodded, his heart sinking. 

Crowley was always so pleased when he came up with something he thought was clever. It couldn’t mean anything good if he was going so desperate now at the thought of Aziraphale finding out about it. 

“I could help.” Aziraphale made himself smile, trying for encouraging. “Our side, and all.”

Crowley all but flinched at that, then covered it with an abortive reach for the sugar bowl.

“It’s nothing, angel. Not a thing.” Crowley slurped at his tea. “I’ll keep it in mind if there ever is something, though, appreciate the thought. Gesture.” He twitched. “You know what I mean.”

They drank their tea in silence for a few minutes, Aziraphale’s macaron tasting like so much dry sugar in his mouth. He refilled Crowley’s cup the moment the demon put it down, and Crowley’s lips pursed.

“Are _you_ all right, angel?” he asked after a moment.

“Perfectly fine, I only…” Aziraphale licked his lips and twisted his ring, wanting nothing more than to show Crowley the courtyard. 

Crowley would calm down, if Aziraphale gave him something to focus on. The initial awkwardness would be smoothed over, and Crowley might even forget to mind the mess for a bit. It was so hard, having Crowley sitting across from him like this and knowing that he only had so many hours before Crowley would tense and grit his teeth and make up some excuse to flee. He couldn’t even enjoy the time he did have with Crowley completely, knowing that there was a countdown on--forty minutes giving way to thirty, then to twenty, then to ten. Waiting for every pronounced intake of breath to presage some stilted variation of “Well, best be off.”

“You know, I’ve been tidying up a bit. Catching up with the things I let go, while we were chasing after the wrong boy, that sort of thing,” Aziraphale said. He folded his hands in his lap when Crowley’s eyes focused on the ring turning under his fingertips. “And one part of the shop I really never found a proper use for was… well, there’s a courtyard, between the back wall and the next building. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it--I haven’t really…”

He was meandering, babbling almost, and Crowley was staring at him like he held the fate of the world in his manicured hands.

“I haven’t really spent much time there,” Aziraphale continued, trying to pull himself together. “I’m afraid it’s not much at the moment, but.” He shrugged nervously. “All the time in the world to get it fixed up, you know. The thing of it is, there are some flowers growing back there, that I found while I was giving it a bit of a mopping up, and, well, I was wondering if you’d mind taking a look at them? You know how dreadful I am with plants. The number of times I almost mistook hemlock for parsnips, really--speaks for itself.”

Aziraphale exhaled sharply and smiled, proud of himself for having muddled through, and Crowley stared at him with a blank look on his face.

“You what.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Ah. Wanted you to look at the flowers in the courtyard. Sorry, that was a bit of a--”

“How many times, exactly, with the hemlock?” Crowley asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. His glasses tipped up, and Aziraphale could see that his eyes were screwed shut behind them.

“Oh, not many.” 

“How many’s not--”

Aziraphale popped a whole macaron into his mouth, and Crowley’s look flattened into something between exasperation and resignation. Aziraphale got to his feet and snatched another macaron. 

“Courtyard?” he mumbled, around a mouthful of crumbs.

Crowley followed him reluctantly, seeming to hesitate more the closer they got to the back door, and Aziraphale couldn’t help his jangling nerves. It was just a courtyard--what on Earth could Crowley be so tense about? Maybe he was envisioning some nightmare of broken furniture and rotting trees, the abandonment of centuries. He’d calm down once he saw the reality of it, saw that he could shape it as he pleased. Aziraphale could feel his heart rate ticking up and wanted to laugh at himself. Here _he_ was, with some unshakeable conviction that Crowley was about to flee, thinking Crowley was the one being ridiculous.

Aziraphale paused at the door and fell back a half-step. He swept out his hand, gesturing for Crowley to go first. Crowley glanced from him to the door, somehow convinced he was walking into a trap. After a moment, Crowley swallowed and leaned forward, trying the handle.

Aziraphale herded him out into the courtyard, pleased with himself at how clean it looked even without the last bits he’d intended to do. Crowley glanced back at him, and Aziraphale smiled encouragingly. “You can see them, here and there. They’re bigger than I’d have expected, given how poor the conditions are. Do you know what they are?”

“You planning on keeping them, then?” Crowley asked, hovering at the edge of the pavers. 

Aziraphale closed the door behind them, feeling as if Crowley might slip past him and make good his escape even now.

“Perhaps. No telling, really,” he said airily. “I thought you might have some… opinions on the subject?”

Crowley twisted around to stare at him, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“I thought the yellow ones might be agrimony?” Aziraphale prompted. He nodded towards the cowslip near the center of the square.

“Cowslip, angel,” Crowley said, barely glancing at the blossoms.

“Are you sure, you’ve--”

“All in the shape of the bell there,” Crowley told him, waving his hand. “Why would I have opinions about your courtyard?”

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed. Why shouldn’t Crowley have opinions about an empty square?

“Well, it’s only that your flat’s so cunningly done up, and I’ve really never known what to do with this little bit of--” Aziraphale waved his hands at the walls. “--of pavement. I was thinking maybe a cafe table and a pair of chairs or so, maybe some little boxes for the flowers…” 

He trailed off, waiting for Crowley to look about, calculate and measure and pick up where he’d stopped. Crowley’s eyes never left his face.

“If that’s what you were thinking, why would you want me weighing in on it?” he asked.

“Ah. That is.” Aziraphale bit his lip. He hadn’t expected trouble once they’d gotten to this part. “I’m no good with space and color and all that, and I thought you might, that is, that you could.” He cleared his throat. “That _we_ could perhaps settle on some things together?”

“What are you on about, you’re no good with space and color?” Crowley frowned and drew himself up. “Who’s told you that? If you want it white, leave it white.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to want to shake the demon by his shoulders less. He took a short, sharp breath and held up his hands.

“It’s not that I don’t like white, or that I don’t want it white, only that I might like or want some other, unknown color more, and we can always change it if it doesn’t suit after all, and I thought you might want the chance to put a few of your own touches on it.” Aziraphale forced a stiff-feeling smile. “If you like. You certainly don’t have to, if you don’t want to, but I… I would appreciate the help.”

Crowley deflated at that, his whole frame shrinking like a balloon with the air let out.

“Sure. I can…” Crowley huffed and looked around. “I can make a few suggestions, I guess.”

“That would be lovely, really.” Aziraphale relaxed. “I know you prefer more open spaces, and a bit of sun, and I had this idea that you might, well, know what to do. I obviously don’t, or I’d have done it before now.” He gave Crowley a shy smile, and Crowley chafed his arms and looked away. “What do you think, about the plants? Pots? A little box?”

“A box would be more flexible, if you want to keep things going in it,” Crowley said quietly. “If you just wanted to save these few and have done, pots would be easier.”

“As was pointed out during my tenure at the Dowlings’ estate, mortal gardening isn’t actually my strong suit,” Aziraphale chuckled.

Crowley hissed. “I didn’t mean it like--”

“I was hoping you might take care of that part for me?” Aziraphale interrupted, giving Crowley that smile that he’d never been able to say no to.

“You can do as you like with your own place, angel,” Crowley said, running his fingers through his hair. He’d let it start getting long again, almost as long as it had been when he’d first shown up on Aziraphale’s doorstep shouting about the end of the world, and Aziraphale watched those nimble fingers rake through it. It had been such a trial, that night, not winding his hands in those red curls and pulling Crowley close for a kiss. “You want plants? Fine--get some plants. Take care of ‘em however you want. Bless them until they’re impervious to everything, change their colors, just give the whole thing a miss and stick plastic and silk flowers in the dirt.”

“I know I can do as I like with my own place,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I’m asking you to please do as you like, and surprise me with something nice.”

“Wh--” Crowley glared at him and threw his arms up. “Just surprise you with something? What if you hate it?”

“I promise you, my dear, if you make it, I’ll love it.”

Crowley’s face went slack at that, and his arms fell to his sides. Aziraphale almost couldn’t stop himself from taking those strong, clever hands in his own. The ache that had prompted him to call Crowley over in the first place had settled in his rib cage, and he wanted so badly to touch the demon. Would it be so wrong if he did? He’d held Crowley at arm’s length for so long, surely it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he coaxed Crowley a little closer now. Before he could think better of it, he reached out and took Crowley’s hand, tugging Crowley along behind him.

“What’s this one, do you think?” Aziraphale pointed to the little tufts of yarrow fighting it out through the pavers. His heart was beating away like a piston in his chest, and Crowley’s skin was warm against his. “Campion?”

“It’s yarrow, angel.” Crowley’s voice was dangerously quiet, and Aziraphale turned back to find him staring at their linked hands. 

Aziraphale pressed Crowley’s hand between his, making sure Crowley understood that it hadn’t been an absent gesture. He could rock up onto the balls of his feet and plant a kiss on Crowley’s cheek, at this range.

“I know I’m a bit set in my ways,” he said softly, rubbing a circle in that delicate skin with the pad of his thumb. “And I know that I’m somehow always a hundred years or so behind the times no matter how I try to keep abreast of them. But the thing of it is, I can’t think of a better or more trustworthy guide into something new, and…” He looked around at the empty courtyard. “That’s what I want, with this. Something new, for us.”

Crowley made a small, slightly strangled noise in response to that, and Aziraphale swallowed. It was unfair, wasn’t it, asking for so much after a thousand years of telling someone _too fast_ and _we can’t_ and _there are limits_. He’d always been so quick to snap when Crowley got too close to that line, so desperate to keep a knife out of Crowley’s back or a bolt from the blue from delivering an inescapable judgment.

“Do you need some time to think about it, my dear?” he asked.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, his voice hoarse. “Don’t ask, unless you’re sure. You can’t…” Crowley was visibly trying to compose himself, and Aziraphale’s heart fluttered at the way the one thing he wasn’t doing was snatching his hand back. “ _I_ can’t, if you’re not sure.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, hands curling around Crowley’s fingers, and kissed his cheek.

“I’ve been sure for a very, very long time, Crowley.” Aziraphale scarcely recognized his own voice around the sudden horror that someone had seen, that in the next moment Crowley would be torn from his side. He fought it down, told himself he was being ridiculous. It had already happened, and they’d beaten it. They’d been spit back out of the maelstrom whole and been left alone to find each other and celebrate their victory. “It was only that I was even more sure that I didn’t want you coming to harm over it. I couldn’t have lived with myself if something happened to you and I was the cause.”

He couldn’t have lived with himself if something had happened to Crowley, full stop, but something in the demon’s face told him now wasn’t the time for that little confession.

“Angel.” Crowley looked almost as poleaxed as he’d been in the immediate aftermath of Satan putting in an appearance, 

“Yes?” _Say yes, please, say yes_.

“Leave it to me.”

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale leaned forward again, and this time he let himself linger for a moment when his lips touched Crowley’s cheek, let himself soak in the heat of that rangy corporation. 

When he leaned back again, Crowley’s cheeks were pink, and his hand had gone tight around Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale couldn’t help but think how vulnerable the demon looked like this, watching him with hopeful eyes, not sure whether or not to trust what he’d been given. How beautiful he was.

Aziraphale could feel an answering blush rising on his own cheeks. “What say we finish our tea, my dear? You can pick through the home and garden section, if you like.”

It was rather more extensive than it should have been, what with his research before applying for the position with the Dowlings, and it was definitely near the surface given the few short years ago he’d still needed it. Crowley would hardly have to do any excavation at all to get to it. Aziraphale imagined him staying for dinner, accepting a nightcap, falling asleep on the sofa.

Too much, too soon--he’d only disappoint himself with it when Crowley fled as he always did. But Crowley was giving him a cautious smile now, and squaring his shoulders, and following Aziraphale back inside. Aziraphale had been patient for so long; he could be patient for a while longer.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley sat cross-legged on the pavement, elbow on his knee and chin on his knuckles. It still felt like some sort of especially surreal dream, being _allowed_ to be in the courtyard. Being halfway to in charge of it. Conditional, of course--he could still get the pass revoked if he mucked it up and showed Aziraphale that there really wasn’t any trusting a demon.

It still felt like some sort of especially surreal dream, Aziraphale kissing him, holding his hand, telling him he’d been sure for ages. 

Had he really miscalculated so badly, after the Apocalypse had gotten rolled back up and put away for later? Aziraphale had said “Coming on time for dinner, don’t you think?” and meant it. Aziraphale had said “Surely it’s too late to drive home?” and meant it. 

Crowley had been so used to looking for the polite refusal in Aziraphale’s words to spare himself the impolite refusal--or worse yet, the few years of denied engagements--that he’d kept doing it even after it had only been his imagination.

He’d felt like he was back in Hell, Aziraphale leading him to that door and spinning out that little story. Between the angel’s “How are the plants getting on?” and his “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it.” and the final “I thought you might have some opinions about it.”, it had felt like a mean-spirited game. 

He’d been so sure that Aziraphale had known what he’d done that he could almost see the hammer about to come down. He’d been petrified, numb, half his brain locked up in a way it hadn’t even with Beelzebub herself glaring daggers at him and about to blame him for Hell’s failure, and then Aziraphale had knocked him on his tail by starting up with the _we_ and the _ours_ and the _us_.

They’d gone back inside, and Crowley had clung to the specifics the angel had mentioned, flipping through innumerable coffee table books and primers to figure out what Aziraphale really meant when he’d talked about the cafe table and the planter boxes. They’d finished their tea, and then Aziraphale had eventually suggested dinner, his tone unmistakably hopeful.

“We could go out, if you like--we don’t have to eat here,” he’d said. “Or we could take in a show?”

There’d been nothing, not even the smallest trace, of a hint that it was time for Crowley to be showing himself out. He’d still been able to feel Aziraphale’s lips on his cheek, and he’d thought nothing of agreeing. Dinner, a one-act, drinks after, a little glass of port when he dropped Aziraphale at the shop--somehow midnight had rolled around, and Aziraphale wasn’t sick of him yet, was in fact sitting closer than they’d ever gotten without being absolutely fucking plastered.

“You don’t really need to go, do you?” Aziraphale had asked, and Crowley hadn’t, of course he hadn’t. The little glass of port had turned into a few more slightly larger glasses of port, and somehow his head had come to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale’s fingers had found their way to his hair. Dawn had found them with their fingers interlocked and their palms pressed together, Aziraphale’s head on his, the angel dozing peacefully against him.

It had been like a dream, the whole day--nightmare giving way to euphoria and then wobbling back again every time he remembered that Aziraphale couldn’t possibly. Couldn’t possibly, but did. Did, but couldn’t possibly.

And now here he was a week later, sitting in the angel’s courtyard without the faintest blessed clue of how to get the angel’s plants into the angel’s pots without killing them dead.

“You could at least try helping, you bastards,” Crowley said, glaring at the weeds. “I know it’s not going to be fun, getting relocated, but you’ll actually be able to make something of yourselves afterwards. No more limping along, halfway to croaking, grateful for even the smallest bit of dew.”

If plants were capable of digging in their heels, the flowers in front of him were very decidedly doing it. Crowley closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. Aziraphale hadn’t used his courtyard, and yet somehow the plants were his all over. Headstrong, set in their ways, and not budging from their preferred environments without a strategic application of dynamite.

“You’re not going to win, you know,” Crowley told them, letting his wings unfurl over his shoulders. 

The sun felt good on them, and there was no need to worry about Aziraphale seeing them and remembering that Crowley was the sort of unclean creeping thing that should be kept at arm’s length, not given a spare set of keys. Crowley had even left his glasses and jacket on the wrought iron table and chairs he’d conjured; it was thrilling, treating the courtyard as if it really was someplace he was welcome. 

Aziraphale had popped off to the Cavendish for the day to wreak havoc at a rare book dealers conference and left him to do as he pleased.

“I know you don’t like people hovering when you’re in the first stages of a plan, so I’ll let you get on with it,” Aziraphale had said, clasping his shoulders gently. It had been appalling, how Crowley had wanted to melt under those few moments of casual contact.

Crowley fluffed his feathers, then let them lay flat again. He’d still have to be careful, though. It hadn’t been so long ago that Aziraphale had been halfway to tears and telling him that he went too fast because he’d offered the angel a lift home. It was all well and good to be allowed to redecorate the courtyard and stay the night on the couch and hold Aziraphale’s hand, but none of it meant Aziraphale wanted to see him get soppy or needy. None of it meant Aziraphale wouldn’t reconsider the whole thing if Crowley went grabbing after more than was on offer.

“He thought you were agrimony,” Crowley said, letting his cheek rest more heavily against his hand. “I could change you out for a cowslip that’s got some manners and some breeding, and he’d never know the difference. Probably pick twenty of them up for a few quid from any nursery in town, have a look-alike contest before settling on your replacement.”

If the flower could have crossed its leaves and turned up its petals, it would have.

Crowley glared at it. “Fine. But he’s going to be disappointed in you, isn’t he? He wants you in pots, not rooting up his pavers. I’ll have to tell him you didn’t care, and then how’s he going to feel?”

The stem drooped precipitously, and Crowley smiled triumphantly.

“That’s more like it,” he laughed, getting a gentle grip on the base of the plant and miracling the dirt around the roots loose. “Out you come. And stop fussing so much. It’ll be nice--soil instead of the exhausted shit you’ve been making do with. Probably half lead and a quarter arsenic, given environmental controls at the time these bricks went down.”

Crowley pried it up, easy as could be, and then draped it carefully against the side of the trench he’d made in the pot before backfilling to cover the roots properly.

“I know it hurts, but it’ll only be for a bit, and then you’ll feel better than you’ve ever been,” Crowley said, tamping down the soil to collapse any fatal air pockets. “It’ll be grand. He’ll come see you every day, and I’ll get you some mates, and before you know it there’ll be bees and hoverflies and whatever the fuck else you want crawling around all over you. You’ll die in a nice bed, surrounded by your children and grandchildren and a fresh application of fertilizer.”

The plant perked up slightly, then snapped its petals shut when he put the pot back on the pavement where it had been growing.

“Because you’ve already had one shock, that’s why,” Crowley explained patiently. “Same reason I’m not emptying a sack of hungry bumblebees on top of you straight away. If I put you in full sun now, while you’re still getting your rootlets back under you, you’d just get burned to a crisp and die. You’ve got to give it a little bit of time.” He got to his feet and picked up the next pot. “All right, you lot--who’s next?”

Badgering and bribing and threatening the rest of them took the better part of the morning, and it was time for lunch before Crowley was finished. He stretched and flicked out his tongue, testing the scent of chlorophyll-flavored umbrage and freshly-turned loam in the air. It didn’t hold a candle to the odor of just-ripening fruit that clung to Aziraphale’s skin, but maybe that would come later, when Aziraphale had settled into the courtyard as a part of his home. For now, nothing smelled too traumatized by the change, and he watered everything carefully and moved back to the cafe table.

It was cunning, if he did say so himself--all nouveau flourishes and fussy curls. He’d gone back and forth on the umbrella before deciding that, on the balance, Aziraphale tended to like a bit of cover as often as not. The tartan was hideous, but it was Aziraphale’s, so Crowley could only assume that the angel saw something in it that escaped the average onlooker. Crowley rubbed his chin. It was too much, though, wasn’t it?

He snapped his fingers, and the unbroken, eye-searing tartan shifted to alternating panels of tartan and cream. If Aziraphale didn’t like it, he could always change it. Crowley repositioned the chairs around the table and considered them. Also too much, taken in aggregate. Crowley got rid of the repeating flower pattern and replaced it with a single large flower on the seat and in the center of the back and left the rest to curlicues and rounded diamonds and arches.

Crowley chewed his lip, surveying the courtyard with a jaundiced eye. He had all sorts of ideas for a mural, but that was best delayed until the flowers had settled enough to plant them in beds like Aziraphale had asked for. He wanted to keep fiddling with everything, poking and prodding and tweaking, which meant that it was probably best to take a break and stop fussing with it for a while. 

The small mountain of biscuits and cakes inside was more convenient than trotting all the way down to the bakery, and it wasn’t like Aziraphale would miss one or two from the pile. Crowley chewed his lip harder. Two or three, maybe. Gluttony--perfectly good hobby for a demon, wasn’t it?

It was only that Aziraphale had made enough for an army, and it had been so long that Crowley had completely forgotten what a decadently fine baker the angel was when he cared to be. Satan, it had been almost two hundred years since he’d gotten so much as a loaf of bread out of the principality, and now there was a stone and a half of pastries just inside the shop. Aziraphale wouldn’t mind, even if he did notice--he was still doing his level best to keep customers out of the bookshop, and it wasn’t like he had more than a guest or two a month at his most sociable. The angel entertained outside the shop when he kept up with his industry contacts, just to keep the odd prying eye and wagging tongue well away from his private stock.

Crowley slipped back inside and helped himself, sampling until he was satisfied. He yawned, the darkened interior of the bookshop finishing the work the sweets had started.

He glanced at his watch. Barely one, and the book jobbers’ ball was set to run until at least six. He grinned, his wings itching for a good spread and no need at all to worry about justifying extra furniture to the angel.

Crowley grabbed one last linzer and made his way back to the courtyard, snapping a wicker and canvas chaise lounge into being as soon as he cleared the door. He shucked his vest and shoved his sleeves up to his elbows, ate the linzer, and flopped contentedly onto his stomach, wings unfurling gloriously. There was plenty of time for a proper bask, and then he’d get back to work.

* * *

Aziraphale sighed happily, briefcase sitting so much lighter in his lap than it had on the trip out. He certainly hadn’t needed three copies of titles he’d disliked the first time around, or second copies of theologians who’d been wrong from start to finish and in particularly obnoxious ways at that. He’d only kept them because Michael had started asking questions about how bookshops worked, and he’d gotten worried that he’d have to sell a few things here and there to keep up appearances.

He couldn’t help a decidedly self-satisfied smile at what he’d done with the money once he had gotten around to selling them. Such a frivolous purchase, but why shouldn’t he? It was… aspirational. Humans talked about how important it could be, having some goal they were looking forward to. The pajamas had been so fluffy and warm, and the slippers had been so comfortable. And there was nothing stopping him from using them, even if he didn’t sleep as a rule. He still changed clothes of an evening; it was only that he’d gone in for a sort of family-dinner, at-leisure garb instead of his daily-use togs when he locked up and settled in for the night.

And there at the bottom of the bag, tucked away below the fluffy, warm pajamas that he could wear as often as he liked, special occasion or no, hidden like the treasure he couldn’t help thinking of it as, was a pretty satin nightgown with a pair of harem trousers and dressing gown to match.

Aziraphale blushed at the thought of them. He’d barely made it through the purchase for flushing, to the point where the saleswoman had delicately asked if he was certain they were the right size. She’d coupled it with a discreet but pointed look at his bustline, and he’d found himself blurting that they were for a friend, but maybe more than a friend, of course more than a friend, they’d been friends for so long now, and she’d smiled sympathetically and asked if he wanted it wrapped.

He almost regretted not saying yes, now that he had time to consider the question properly. It was a gift, and he’d want to present it as such. But he could wrap it himself, when the time came, and in the interim…

Aziraphale thought of it draped over the footboard as if waiting for its owner to slip it on, and his head spun. He’d only gone in to see what the shop had had for new clothes. He’d had a vague idea of picking out a few things like pajamas and jumpers that weren’t quite so buttoned up, clothes he might wear when Crowley was around to show the demon that things could be different, going forward. Clothes that he could wear now that things _were_ different.

He’d looked up and seen the ladies’ nightwear section, and it had been like a sign. The satin was black and trimmed with a fine red lace, and his first thought had been how well it would suit Crowley. They’d even had it in the demon’s size, roughly, with drawstrings and extra fabric that would easily accommodate Crowley’s narrow hips and endless legs.

It would look wonderful on Crowley. Crowley would look wonderful in it. Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile on his face, and he couldn’t feel even the slightest bit sorry that the rest of the carriage was going doe-eyed and beatific as they bumped and clicked along down the track. 

No one was going to complain if passive proximity to him cured their cold or lifted their seasonal allergies or lessened the symptoms of their depressive episode. It had only ever been Gabriel fussing at the spendthrift petty miracles, and it wasn’t as if Aziraphale hadn’t given him a great deal more to fuss about since the last talking-to about department budgets and overages and ethereal accounting.

Aziraphale let his smile go even warmer.

Crowley had held Aziraphale’s hand and let Aziraphale kiss him and rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Crowley had spent the night and not seemed even the least bit uncomfortable. 

The courtyard had been such a splendid idea. Even if Crowley hadn’t been as quick to seize on it as he’d hoped, it had still served its purpose as a pressure valve. Just knowing that he had an escape had made Crowley so much calmer and more pliant, and how wonderful it had been to propose one thing after another and have Crowley keep saying yes.

Aziraphale hugged his bag to his chest and beamed at the thought of it. Every time Crowley had hesitated, it had only taken the slightest clutching pressure on that fine-boned hand before he’d asked if Aziraphale was sure and given in as soon as Aziraphale had said yes. Only it hadn’t even been a giving in--Crowley had seemed relieved bordering on pleased to let Aziraphale have his way, once they’d satisfied that one condition. 

Who knew where they’d be in a few years? Once the courtyard was finished and Crowley had somewhere to retreat to when the shop became overwhelming, the demon might be happy to spend every evening with Aziraphale. The nights would grow longer and the weather would turn colder, and evenings might turn into afternoons and evenings. Aziraphale would quietly chip away at the chaos, and eventually the shop wouldn’t _be_ overwhelming. Breakfast wouldn’t be such a reach after that, and then Aziraphale could casually mention that if Crowley didn’t want to go all the way back to Mayfair, perhaps he might like the room upstairs for the night?

Aziraphale imagined Crowley coming downstairs after one of those afternoons turned into evenings turned into nights, black satin sheathing the demon’s lanky frame. Yawning, red hair tousled, golden eyes bare, ready to steal a bit of toast and a cup of coffee. 

He’d ventured so far as a quick squeeze of Crowley’s shoulders before he’d left for the conference this morning, and it had been so hard not to wrap Crowley in his arms and embrace him properly. Nectar on a cool night breeze--that was what the demon smelled of. Small wonder Aziraphale hadn’t been able to pin it down at the time, given where they’d been. It would have been impossible to pick out around Eden’s floral symphony on that first day they’d met.

Aziraphale was all but walking on air when his stop rolled around and it was time for the last leg of his journey. Crowley had spoken as if he’d have the whole thing overhauled by lunchtime, but Aziraphale hadn’t spent a millennium watching Crowley’s projects fall prey to the demon’s basic nature without gaining some sense of how it had likely gone. 

Crowley’s plans tended to start out ambitious and grow exponentially from there, becoming more convoluted and ridiculous the more stumbling blocks he found in his way. In Crowley’s opinion, obstacles and logistical issues were things to be routed around, not invitations to take stock of the situation and see if the end goal was really as feasible as it had seemed in the initial stages of the thing. He’d have come up with something detailed and grand for the courtyard, run into a minor snag, and then spent the rest of the day trying various schemes to deal with that instead of moving on. 

Aziraphale smiled at the thought of Crowley spending every day for the rest of the summer trying to get the courtyard precisely to his liking. Surely he could bear up under the imposition and the delay, dreadful inconvenience though it might pose. Aziraphale laughed to himself.

He could call Crowley in for lunch, or ask him to taste some old recipe Aziraphale was trying to replicate with modern ingredients, and then shoo him back to work when the shop got under the demon’s skin again. It was the sort of thing that Crowley could, if he got persnickety enough about the details, spend years trying to perfect. And then there were the promised flower boxes.

Crowley had come back from the front shelves with a barely-controllable armload of books about traditional cottage landscaping and spent half an hour cross-referencing all the flowers Aziraphale expressed any interest in against what might grow well in an urban environment and what did well in containers. Crowley could spend _decades_ fussing with a garden, if he put his mind to it.

Aziraphale let himself into the shop quietly, glanced around, and stole upstairs to stow his bag where it couldn’t get him into trouble. When he came back downstairs, Crowley was still nowhere to be found. The biscuit platter bore marks of demonic predation, however--there was a significant dent in it, and Aziraphale chuckled. He’d have to be mindful about replenishing it. Or maybe he could move on to the savories, do a cottage loaf and some crumpets. Aziraphale chewed his lip and pictured Crowley stalking into the shop just as a batch of saffron buns were finishing, nose twitching for a moment, golden eyes going wide at the memory of the last time Aziraphale had made them.

He ventured to the back of the shop and let himself into the courtyard, prepared to hear the demon blessing a blue streak and needing to be talked out of whatever snit he’d gotten himself into about grout colors or table construction. He wasn’t prepared at all to find Crowley stretched out and sleeping peacefully on a chaise lounge, his bare face pillowed on his arms and his wings stretched wide.

Aziraphale barely stopped the little _Oh._ that caught on his tongue like a sweet sigh. Crowley looked so perfectly at home, so perfectly at peace. He’d rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, no doubt still had dirt under his fingernails, and his hair had come half-loose from his short ponytail. Aziraphale could so easily imagine how it had gone. 

The plants were all potted, and the table and chairs were ready--Aziraphale pursed his lips and flushed at the tartan umbrella, at how perfect and how pointed it was at the same time. Crowley knew what he liked and wasn’t about to grudge him it, even if he thought it was a bit twee or a bit out of fashion. Crowley had probably stolen one too many pastries, and it had been a balmy day, and he’d stopped for a nap that had been meant to last just a few minutes.

Aziraphale let his gaze follow each lovely curve and angle of those beautiful black wings. There was a marvelous iridescence to them in the sun like this, a touch of deep purple and blue and even green revealed with each minute shift as Crowley breathed. How warm would they be if he touched them? Aziraphale wriggled at the thought, desire butting up against caution. 

It would be worth it, he was sure, but at the same time he didn’t want to wake Crowley. It had been such a long time since he’d seen the demon so relaxed, and this was precisely how Aziraphale had wanted Crowley to feel in this space.

He crossed to the table noiselessly and sat down, folding his hands in his lap and just watching as Crowley slept away the rest of the afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley blinked awake slowly, warm enough he could melt with it. He flexed his wings, giving languid muscles a good solid stretch, and then froze at the muffled gasp that sounded from behind him. He turned, his mouth dry as dust, and looked over his shoulder to find Aziraphale sitting at the table. The angel had started half out of his seat, eyes wide and glued to Crowley’s wings.

“Erm.” He could explain. He could explain, he could still salvage it, he could come up with something that would make Aziraphale forget all about it. He just had to make his jaw and his tongue and his larynx work together to make words come out of his stupid fucking mouth. What had he been thinking, taking a nap like this with Aziraphale liable to come back at any time? “Uh.”

“Your wings are so lovely, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice as fragile as the pink tinge starting on his cheeks. “I really… I’ve missed seeing them.”

“Ah.” Crowley tried again, around that completely nonsensical statement. Aziraphale hadn’t spent three thousand years turning his nose up at Crowley’s color palette and lecturing him about temptation and pointing out that he deserved it when his plans went completely to shit and calling him foul and _meaning_ it a full ten percent of the time to turn around and find his singed feathers acceptable now. Crowley furled his wings, the angel’s gaze starting an itch he couldn’t scratch right between his shoulder blades. “You what?”

“You’ve hardly shown them at all since, well, Eden.” Aziraphale’s expression turned decidedly disappointed when Crowley pulled his wings in tight and tucked them flat against his back. “And they really are so pretty, especially in the sun. You know, there was a moment when you stretched just now that they looked properly midnight blue?” Aziraphale twisted his hands together in his lap and gave Crowley a small, shy smile. “But I couldn’t help notice that a few of the secondaries were a bit out of order. I could straighten them for you, if you like?”

He sounded so hopeful, and so uncertain, that Crowley couldn’t do anything more than blink stupidly at him for several long moments. Aziraphale was offering to touch his wings. Crowley hadn’t thought they were out of order, but then again it had been a few days since he’d combed through them. Was Aziraphale looking for an excuse to touch his wings? Of course not. But Aziraphale had said he liked them. He was just being kind--

Crowley stopped at that. Aziraphale was, generally speaking, as kind as he could get away with being in any given situation. That had never, not once, led to Aziraphale lying to him about whether or not the angel approved of some bit of demonic handiwork. Crowley couldn’t think of a single, solitary time Aziraphale had ever praised him when Aziraphale would clearly have much rather shouted at him or ignored the situation.

Crowley swallowed around the painful lump in his throat, took a deep breath around the thumping in his chest, and spread his wings again. Aziraphale perked up immediately, beaming at him, and Crowley’s heart somehow found a way to go even harder. There was nothing but a roaring in his ears and a heaviness in his belly and a courtyard gone utterly and unbearably still around the slow, cautious advance of a grateful principality.

Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the chaise, and Crowley budged over to give him more room. He could practically see the outline of Aziraphale’s halo like this, that barely-banked fire of an angel’s joy spilling out over the edges of his corporation. Aziraphale reached out, then hesitated, and Crowley hadn’t seen him give that look to anything but long-lost manuscripts and gourmet dinners since the Great Schism.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, finally burying his fingers in Crowley’s feathers.

His touch was electric, measured and careful and thorough, and it was all Crowley could do to remember how to keep having limbs. And then Aziraphale was making that pleased little humming noise, that tiny, satisfied _hmm_ that Crowley hadn’t heard from him in centuries, and moving on to the adjacent coverts and primaries as well. There was no rushing the angel, not in this.

Crowley could feel the blood rising in his face, that unbearable focus of Aziraphale’s attention and affection and gentleness burning him from the inside. He’d combust from it--he knew he would.

“You’ve done such a wonderful job so far,” Aziraphale said quietly, running his fingertips over the barbs. “The flowers seem happier already, even though I imagine it couldn’t have been pleasant, getting transplanted like that.”

Crowley gave a noncommittal grunt, not trusting his voice if he spoke. Aziraphale’s hip pressed into Crowley’s waist as the angel leaned across him to straighten the non-existent rumpling on his other side, and Crowley couldn’t help but gasp when Aziraphale’s free hand settled lightly on his back, just below his floating ribs.

“Too much, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, not moving his hand but taking even the faintest trace of weight off it.

“Ngh.” Crowley shook his head. “Just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale let his hand rest over Crowley’s spine, still not pressing but just… holding. Touching, as if he wanted to. Crowley shivered at it. “You know, someday soon you really must show me how you’ve managed to keep your tertiaries so tidy. I can never quite reach, and it’s always such a bother.”

Crowley caught the thread of want in that and pounced on it. Finally, something made sense. Aziraphale wanted him to reciprocate, wanted a favor for a favor--

The hand on his back went firm. 

“Not _now_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale laughed, voice pitched low but inarguable all the same. “I’m otherwise engaged, at the moment.”

Aziraphale traced the rachis of a primary, and Crowley shivered again, a heat that had nothing to do with the sun or the closeness of the day coiling down his spine to settle in his belly. His whole corporation throbbed with it when Aziraphale moved on to the next feather. Eventually, Aziraphale sighed and straightened up.

“There we are, my dear,” he said, all but purring with it. “All perfectly in order and lovely.”

He lifted Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissed it, and Crowley couldn’t breathe for the light absolutely pouring from the angel. Aziraphale’s aura was so bright that it took Crowley a moment to realize that the sun was sinking, the shade of the walls surrounding them throwing the courtyard into a lovely lavender haze. He’d slept so much longer than he’d meant to, and Aziraphale had sat there, watching him, for hours.

“Thank you, for letting me,” Aziraphale said, lowering Crowley’s hand to his lap. “Thank you, for all of this.”

“’m not finished,” Crowley managed, sparing a glance around for the sparse pavement with its scattering of pots and few bits of furniture.

“I know,” Aziraphale told him, clasping his hand. “But it’s such a wonderful beginning, and I… I appreciate that you’re willing to try, Crowley. I haven’t always made it easy, especially in the last few years. I don’t know that I’ve ever made it easy on you, specifically. No one in all of creation could blame you for chucking it in, as it were.”

Crowley rolled onto his side and glanced from his hand, neatly ensconced in Aziraphale’s grasp, to the diffuse glow of Aziraphale’s face. The angel’s tousled silver curls framed his round cheeks perfectly, and Crowley had never wanted to kiss those pink lips more.

“No one in all of creation’s a fucking idiot, then,” he said firmly. “Easy, hard, wherever in between, I lo--”

Crowley broke off, brain kicking out of gear even as the seconds ticked by and the opportunity to offer some other word and keep himself from ruining everything slipped through his fingers. He managed to open his mouth soundlessly a few times, everything he _could_ say to cover that fatal slip sticking firmly in his craw.

“I love you, too, Crowley.” Aziraphale kissed his hand again. “Come inside, won’t you? We could open a bottle of wine and go through that phone of yours and figure out what to put the flowers in, once they’re settled.”

“You love me.” Crowley tried to process the rest of it--come inside, plan for the future, relax as if everything was completely normal--around the earthquake of that casual declaration.

“I risked everything, for a thousand years, just to spend a little more time in your company,” Aziraphale told him, letting those tender fingertips tuck against Crowley’s palm, pressing the softness of his own palm against the back of Crowley’s hand. It was kindling and a box of matches, all Crowley needed to start a fire he could scorch himself with if he wasn’t careful. “Yes, I love you. Selfishly, for a great deal of our time together--it was you I was risking, for most of it--but still.” He managed a wan smile. “It was love. I hope, going forward, that I might… that you’d give me a chance to… to do it better.”

“Heaven’s sake, angel,” Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Just our sake, my dear.”

“You love me.” Crowley scrambled up, shoving himself half upright and taking Aziraphale’s downy face in his hands. All the shouting about them not being friends and Heaven being destined to win the Final Battle and calling him a foul fiend, and the bastard had loved him all this time?

“Are you going to kiss me?” Aziraphale asked, hope coloring his voice.

“It’s that or throttle you,” Crowley said, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to those plush lips. Aziraphale loved him.

The angel’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him half into that generously-cushioned lap, and Crowley couldn’t remember what bitterness was when Aziraphale’s sweet mouth parted under his. He buried his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair and broke the kiss, laughing when Aziraphale chased his mouth.

“A thousand years?” Crowley asked. A thousand years, and they could have been doing this. He swayed back against Aziraphale, kissing him firmly.

This time, Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around his ribs, forestalling any future thought of retreat.

“You love me,” Crowley said again, voice muffled by Aziraphale’s lips, and the angel sighed and leaned his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder.

“I haven’t broken you, have I, my dear?” he asked.

Crowley turned and looked into those placid eyes, the blue darkening into something to rival a cornflower, and he couldn’t help kissing Aziraphale again, slow and soft and how he’d imagined doing it every time the angel had smiled at some clever thing over dinner. He’d wondered so often what it would be like to cuddle the principality, and now here he was, discovering just what he’d been missing.

“Whyever would you think that?” Crowley asked, once they’d both gotten their breath back. “I mean, it’s only been _a thousand blessed years_.”

Aziraphale wound Crowley’s hair around holy fingers and tugged lightly. “Surely you can forgive me for trying to keep you out of trouble?”

“Keep me out of…?” Crowley snorted. “Half the trouble I got into was your fault.”

More than half, if Crowley sat down and tallied it up. Hard to do around the plump corporation filling his arms, around Aziraphale’s fingers idly carding through his hair, around his skin about to split and go all over with scales at the pleasure of it. Aziraphale loved him. All the ways he’d tried to talk himself out of loving the angel over the centuries, all the agonies he’d suffered at the thought of Aziraphale finding out, and Aziraphale loved him.

“You could’ve said, you know,” Crowley grumbled, once the sun had set properly and they still hadn’t made it off the chaise or out of each other’s arms. “I mean, you had to’ve known, if you loved me.”

“Oh, yes. I could have just said.” Aziraphale toyed with a stray lock of Crowley’s hair, looking half-distracted by the red curl twisting loose around his finger. “I could have just said, and then just watched you go even more reckless and sulk twice as hard whenever I had to send you away for safety’s sake.”

“A-ha! So you did know,” Crowley said, straightening up.

“Mmm.” Aziraphale sighed and let his hands fall to the front of Crowley’s shirt, fingers digging into the fabric as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I spent such a long time hoping you did. The party line was that demons couldn’t, and even if they somehow could, they wouldn’t. But you kept coming back, even after I disappointed you, and you were willing to accept it when I apologized, and to apologize when it was you doing the disappointing. And I thought it would be so lovely, if that was why. You know, I almost did tell you, when I first realized? I was so happy. I got quite ahead of myself, really. I wanted to make a night of it, stage some grand romantic affair.”

“What happened?” Crowley asked, not liking the sadness lurking in the angel’s tone. “Archangels give you a talking-to? Remind you how short your leash was?”

“I realized what would happen to you, if it was true. If Hell found out.” Aziraphale managed a wan smile. “It didn’t seem quite the sort of thing one throws a party for, after that.”

“I was careful, angel,” Crowley told him, kissing his brow. “You know I was.”

“You got yourself discorporated every time I took my eye off you for more than a few years, you lied your way into a small mountain of commendations for things you had no Earthly way of being responsible for, and you were never handed an assignment you didn’t immediately try to find some clever way out of actually doing.” Aziraphale’s grip on his shirt went tight. “And that was without you thinking that you could just wile your way out of me being cross with you over any of it.”

“Only got caught the once, though,” Crowley reminded him. “And by then it’s not like it really mattered.” 

He let his face drop until he could kiss the grimness and regret off Aziraphale’s features. It didn’t belong there, had never belonged there. Aziraphale had been meant for a better world than he’d been given. There was a hunger in it when Aziraphale kissed him back, this time.

“Besides, you’re one to talk about wiling your way out of someone being cross with you,” Crowley murmured. “That outfit you were wearing when you got busted by la Garde nationale was put together with the primary aim of making you too pretty to shout at, and don’t pretend it wasn’t.”

“You liked that one, did you?” Aziraphale asked, sitting back and giving Crowley a searching look.

“It was awful,” Crowley said, smirking. “Worst thing I’ve ever seen you in. All I could do not to tell you to take it off, immediately.”

Aziraphale flushed to his roots, and Crowley blinked at that, delight following quickly on the heels of surprise.

“Oh,” Crowley chuckled, nuzzling at Aziraphale’s ear when the principality covered his face with his hands, “you didn’t think I’d _noticed_ , did you?”

“Well, it’s not like you’ve ever let on!” Aziraphale cried, dropping his hands. “Not about that, at any rate.”

“Didn’t want to upset you with it, what with all your not letting on,” Crowley told him, kissing his way back to Aziraphale’s mouth. “Figured you’d about have a fit, if I said you were like an eclair that I couldn’t wait to drizzle in chocolate and suck perfectly hollow.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s face was scarlet now, but his eyes were dazzling. His hands wrapped around Crowley’s hips, and his lips pursed. “If I asked you to come upstairs with me--”

“Yes,” Crowley told him, punctuating it with a kiss. Even if he did combust with it, it’d be worth it. Centuries piled on centuries, and Aziraphale loved him. Aziraphale _wanted_ him, was sitting here kissing him and then being pleased and surprised at there being more that they could have.

“I didn’t even finish the question,” Aziraphale protested, fingers tightening, digging into the fabric. Crowley almost miracled his jeans off right then, the heaven with going upstairs. They could make love under the stars, fuck on the pavement, whatever it was Aziraphale wanted. Whatever it was Aziraphale would let him do, whatever pleasure Aziraphale was willing to have from him. _Aziraphale loved him._

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley said, kissing him again, “answer’s yes.”

Aziraphale sighed and melted against him, arms winding around Crowley’s chest and tightening with all the subtle care of a boa constrictor. It felt like the angel never intended to let go again, which was just fine by Crowley. “Then, my dear, please--won’t you come upstairs with me?”

Crowley grinned, then kissed him gently until Aziraphale was all but squirming against him. He dipped his mouth to Aziraphale’s ear and flicked out his tongue. “ _Yes_.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sunbasking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622142) by [Madame_Serpentine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Serpentine/pseuds/Madame_Serpentine)




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